Unmistaken
by Blackrose Kitsune
Summary: Don't worry, anything happens to you, no one's going to lift a finger. House may just have to eat his words and shelve his pride as reprecussions from 'The Mistake' land Chase in some trouble. But can House? Or rather, will he?
1. I: Time Enough to Worry

_**Unmistaken**_

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Chapter I: Time Enough to Worry

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_Noon was finally upon them, and for most of the Princeton Plains-boro Teaching Hospital staff, this meant lunch break, and a time of peace from often irate, hypochondriac patients. Abandoning the need to remove their hospital attire, much of the staff simply flocked to the cafeteria this time of day, or left for a brief respite to their respective homes. Presently, most all of the staff could be found sitting in one place or another in the crowded chamber. Although this made most admittedly claustrophobic, it did not prevent the same scenario from replaying itself day by day._

_"You're worried about him?" Foreman asked incredulously as he and Cameron inched their way through a mess of white lab coats towards an unoccupied table in the corner near the east exit._

_"And you're not?" she replied snappishly, struggling to stay at his side as they made their way through the congregation of staff members._

_He shrugged noncommittally. "Why should I be?"_

_"Because," she protested, "this is the third time he hasn't shown up for work this week."_

_"Not my business," he replied tiredly, dropping into the chair with his cold cut almost thankfully once they reached their chosen table._

_"But-but he's your colleague_—_"_

_"He's a weasel and a snitch," he cut across her with a slight frown creasing his features as he took a bite of his sandwich._

_"He's still your colleague," she repeated flatly. "I'm going to check on him."_

_"He lives a fair distance away," he muttered almost thoughtfully, "House won't be too happy when you don't get back in time."_

_A ghost of a smile passed over her features, "House won't do anything about it," she replied confidently._

_He raised a skeptical eyebrow, "why do you say that?"_

_"Cuddy has him on clinic duty all afternoon. He won't have the time, or the opportunity to hassle me about Chase."_

_"You could get into trouble with the board, you realize?" he inquired of her sighing, as though not sure she understood what she was intending._

_"I'm worried about Chase," her tone was soft. "Things have been hard for him ever since he and House got through their peer review."_

_"Worry about that on your own time then," he proposed, knowing she would not just drop the 'worried about Chase' thing flat out. "Then you won't risk getting in trouble with Cuddy."_

_"A person is more important than a job."_

_"He wouldn't see it that way. If this situation were reversed, he'd throw you to the dogs in a second if it meant job security," he pointed out lightly, referring back to his treasonous actions when Vogler had first come to call upon PPTH._

_"Well I'm not him, am I?" She asked defiantly. _

_With that said, she drew herself up to her full height, pulled her lab coat around herself more tightly, as though she were cold, and skirted the table._

_At her response, he shook his head slowly, watching as the tail of her lab coat disappeared out the door and into the permeating midday sunlight. He took another bite from his sandwich._

_---_

She shook her head lightly, clearing her mind of the conversation she and Foreman had held prior. At the time, she had been adamant about checking on Chase. Although she knew Foreman's points about him were well input, it did not change the fact that he was, regardless of what he had done in the past, still their colleague. And she was still a slightly-too-naïve doctor who chose to always see the best in people. Those two factors, alongside the fact that he would not answer his phone when she had called prior to the chat between Foreman and herself, were indeed the sole reasons why she stood where she did presently: In front of his apartment door.

As she stood, her hand raised and poised to knock on his door, she had to stop and wonder, though. Did she really want to do this? Of course she was worried about him; she wouldn't have come if she weren't. But what if nothing were truly wrong? For all she knew, he could be sitting, quite contently and perfectly fine, on his couch, just flipping through the channels. Maybe nothing was wrong and he just wanted to avoid work to avoid House. If that were the case, she most certainly couldn't blame him.

But, what if…? There was a chance that nothing was wrong. However, there was also the possibility that something was. The fact that he hadn't answered his cell phone when she called made her lean towards the worse of the two choices.

"Besides," Cameron concluded to herself, shaking her head slightly. "It's still worth checking out. Even if nothing's wrong, I'll be wasting a trip out here if I do nothing."

Having made up her mind she tapped lightly on his apartment door, waiting for him to let her in. When no such response came, she knocked again, this time more loudly. Still there came no answer. And as she tried a third time, the worry swelling within her reached a crescendo; lingering as painfully as the echo of her hollow knock reverberating down the deserted hallway she stood in.

"Chase—Are you there?" Her voice echoed, just as her in-vain knocks had, down the deserted corridor. Not quite deterred, and staving off—rather unsuccessfully—the worry lancing away at her, she called out again; the echoes of another knock dancing mournfully after her faltering voice.

"Chase—Chase—It's me, Cameron. Please open up."

As silence became the only reply to her calls, her hand, now with its palm resting against the cool wooden structure for much needed support, slipped down to linger on the cool metal knob. Almost reflexively her fingers curled themselves around the object.

As she stood there, worry lacing its way through her mind, hand resting aimlessly on his doorknob, a thought hit her. She knew she shouldn't, really. It was a huge risk on her part, that she should be willing to so mindlessly put his privacy on the line. But, she was worried about him. Wasn't that just the justification she needed? And besides, if he wasn't home, or was but didn't want company, wouldn't he have sense enough to lock the door? If it was, she had nothing to worry about; if it wasn't, well if it came to that she'd work something out.

After all, you couldn't work around Gregory House for so long and not have some of his attitude rub off on you.

Slightly hesitant, she began to turn the doorknob. Expecting it to stop mid-turn, she was surprised to find it turn full-circle as the catch gave way and the door slipped from the frame few millimeters. For a moment she stood bewildered, not having expected the door to be open. Then, to appease her worry, she carefully pushed the door open wide enough to peer inside.

From the small opening she had given herself, she couldn't really see much. The interior of his apartment was dim with nothing except the wane hallway light filtering into the room.

Not being able to see far inside, she threw caution to the winds, and pushed the door completely open, slipping quietly into the room. Closing the door behind her once more, she inched across the room slowly, her eyes scanning over the area as they adjusted to the feeble lighting. The room—the living room, she assumed—was scarcely lit, it's only source of ill-begotten light filtering in from between the gaps in his still-drawn curtains and casting oblong shadows over the furniture and splaying an ill array over the off-white walls.

"Hello?" she called out pensively, half expecting an answer. "Chase?"

This was weird. Disconcertingly weird. His door had been unlocked, meaning that he must surely be home, and yet, the lights were out, the curtains drawn and no one was responding when she called out. What on earth was going on? And what in the world was that bitterly poignant, musky aroma hanging in the air?

As she turned her gaze towards the farthest end of the room, looking off towards the right, she noticed a small patch of rectangular light, resembling the outline of a doorframe, leaking through the otherwise dark interior. Curious as to why the light should be on in that room, yet no where else in the house, she made her way slowly across the threshold and towards the open-standing door frame.

As she crossed the living room, the sweet musky scent hanging in the air grew increasingly potent to the point where it began to burn her sinuses. She coughed dryly and stopped just short of the open frame. Gazing into the small room she could make out the outline of a dishwasher and sink.

_'Must be the kitchen,'_ she concluded to herself as she began to turn, not having found anything of importance. As she did so, she noticed the rough silhouette of something off to the corner and promptly turned back to the room for inspection.

Glancing in the direction of the figure, it took her a moment to register just what exactly she was seeing. Suddenly, it all made sense—why he had been avoiding work; why he hadn't answered his phone; even the musty smell burning her sinuses.

Her throat constricted painfully as she tried to stumble over the word wanting to spring from her lips, and whether she had gotten the word out she couldn't know; it was impossible to hear with the beating of her heart roaring in her ears and deafening her senses. After a moment she managed to find her voice and the words she had been struggling to utter sprang from her lips.

"Oh my God—Chase!"

* * *

**_Author's Ramblings:_** This is my first attempt at a House M.D. fanfiction. Please be honest in your reviews and please tell me if you think they're in character or not. I really want to keep them in character as much as possible so all criticism is happily accepted. Be sure to tell me if I should continue too. Thanks. 


	2. II: Not going to be Another Statistic

Chapter II: Not going to be Another Statistic

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Face pale and throat tight, Cameron made a hesitant move towards her companion. The heart beating in her chest continued to deafen her to the outside world as she approached his side shakily.

Chase was laying, still as death, slumped over the dining room table, his cheek pressed roughly against the smooth Formica top, and sea green eyes closed to the world as though in the peace of sleep. Shimmering ominously in the kitchen light, dust-fine fragments of glass adorned the tabletop. Their trail of splintered shards lead from a broken glass, whose side was adorned with several vicious cracks, down the length of the table, and disappeared in a pool of congealed amber liquid, pooling around the contours of Chase's slumped figure. In the areas where flesh met the congregating liquid, it adhered to his flesh, turning his otherwise golden, free-falling tresses of hair into a painful, matted mess. Issuing from the corner of his slightly parted lips—the flesh bearing a pale blue tinge—was a slow trickle of blood; the cause of which was a rather profusely bleeding cut at the corner of his lip, and smaller, less prominent, lacerations etching crosshatched patterns into his cheek from splintered glass fragments his head rested upon.

"How could this have happened…?" She asked to the still air, her voice tapering off and mingling further with the silence as each passing syllable escaped her lips.

Even as she said it, she knew the answer to her question; as it was sitting plainly before her, looking back in the most mocking of tones—A largely empty bottle of Whiskey, the idle remains, perhaps a third of its entire contents, emanating an eerie golden sort of glow.

She had stopped abruptly at the sight, standing mere feet away. Her eyes lingered unblinkingly, almost in a trance-like state, upon the bottle. Painfully mirrored, her reflection stared back at her blankly; and through the amber fluid and translucent glass she could make out the unfocused shapes of empty bottles.

Suddenly, as though having been forced from her reprieve, and thrown headlong back into the present reality, she started. Slowly, her shocked disbelief began to evaporate, just as the stilled liquid had given itself away to the demanding air after some time, and she fell instinctively—though perhaps somewhat harder than usual—into her Doctor Mode.

Closing the remaining distance between herself and Chase, she was mindful to avoid stepping on the glass fragments already showering the pale linoleum floor.

Getting to his side, she kneeled carefully; feeling the bite of the glass fragments as they embedded themselves in the knees of her pants. Slowly, she pressed two fingers to the side of his throat—the left side—with a gentle, yet deliberate pressure, gauging his pulse. After a moment she felt the throb of his carotid artery beneath her fingers. He had a pulse—Slow and arrhythmic as it was, it was nonetheless present. She let out a breath of relief.

It was an extremely short-lived relief, however; as she realized that although he had an arterial pulse, it was weak and shallow, and his breathing was labored and irregular, with no more than perhaps six or seven breaths a minute that she had noted. With so few breaths, little oxygen could reach the brain and he wouldn't be much longer for this world.

Fumbling through the pocket of her lab coat with frantic fingers, she reached for her cell phone. She struggled to remove it from the protection of her pocket, and hastily flipped open the cover.

"Come on, Chase—Hang on." She mouthed breathlessly, fiddling with the phone dials, and the numerous buttons her eyes suddenly couldn't decipher with one hand; she struggled to shift Chase's head to the side in a hope to clear his airway and make his breathing easier.

Having punched in the first readily available number on her phone's speed dial—Cuddy's office number—she waited anxiously as the shrill tones of ringing on the other side enveloped her senses.

Waiting for the line to pick up, she searched the room with wide eyes looking for any sort of item that she could use to clean Chase up with, to perhaps assess any severe injuries. Seeing a small dishtowel hanging over the handle of the oven door, she stood up and went to fetch it, turning to the sink and dampening the fabric with a cool gush of water from the faucet.

The line picked up. "Hello? Princeton Plains-boro. Cuddy speaking."

"Cuddy? Cuddy, it's Allison—" her voice was cut across by that of the older woman's.

"Cameron? Why are you calling? Aren't you here _at_ the hospital?"

"I-I don't have time to explain—Just, please—"

"What did House do now?" An exasperated sigh followed.

"Nothing! Nothing, I just—can I get an ambulance down to Princeton's in-residence housing?"

"What are you doing down there? Don't tell me you decided to pull a House."

Cameron shook her head tiredly, though she knew Cuddy couldn't see; and cast a worried look towards the still unresponsive Chase beside her. "Look," she began evenly, "I'll explain everything later." As she said this she had to wonder, would there be a later? This phone call was going nowhere soon and she knew she was wasting Chase's time—each minute she wasted was one he may never see. "Just get an ambulance down to Princeton's in-residence housing, apartment—" She stopped, mind reeling as she tried remembering the brass numbers screwed to the front of his door. "—23B"

"Wait…" there was a hint of curiosity in her voice as Cuddy replied. "Isn't that Chase's apartment?"

"Yes—It is." Cameron blurted in slight annoyance.

"Why do you need an ambu—"

"I don't have time to explain. Just tell me you'll send one." She cut across quickly, almost pleading with Cuddy, as her voice cracked slightly.

"Okay, I'll get one. But, you're going to explain yourself."

Cameron sighed relief. "Thanks." Then she clapped the cover back over her phone, pushing it back into her coat pocket forcibly. Then she turned back to Chase; he seemed unchanged. She checked his pulse again. No change.

Kneeling once more beside him, she took the damp cloth into one hand and carefully lifted his head with the other. Gently, she began to dab away at the congealed blood on his cheek and the trail issuing from between his lips, noting how cold he seemed to be. She worked slowly; carefully cleaning around the cuts and abrasions he had suffered. Her other hand wound its way into his hair, her fingers moving deftly to separate the painful clumps.

When she was satisfied that he had been cleaned up, she stood, feeling her legs resist to having to bear weight again. Then, to pass the minutes until the ambulance's fateful arrival, she began to clear the table.

Empty Whiskey bottles fell into the trash, the glass shattering in force as it hit the bottom of the trash bin. She furrowed her eyebrows, a sad—pitiful? —look crossing her features. "What were you thinking Chase?" she muttered tiredly, casting him and inquiring look as her hands swept over the tabletop and brushed glass fragments and empty bottles into the bin as well.

At last, when she had cleared the debris, she turned to the last object. It was the broken glass, and the stark-white radiance of the fractures coursing over its structure mocked her. Like there was something about. Something that she should know, but didn't. As if she were in the wrong line of thought…

"What if it wasn't an accident?" she mumbled, turning towards Chase. "Oh, Chase… did you really do this to your—"

Her voice was interrupted mid-word by Chase's sudden sputter. He jerked convulsively, limbs trembling and beginning to flail until the overexertion forced him from his respite on the table to laying on the cold, hard linoleum below, and remaining glass fragments.

"Oh God, he's seizing," she yelled panic-stricken, as she skirted the edge of the table, and fell to her knees beside his writhing form. He chocked and coughed violently, and she struggled to turn him onto his side as he began to choke and cough up copious amounts of dark liquid that spattered across the floor painting the white linoleum in unpleasant tones.

Without proper medical devices there was little she could to but stand there, keeping him on his side and pray that the ambulance hurried.

"Just a bit longer—Just a few more minutes… Hang on, Chase." She voiced, the mantra falling off her lips every few seconds as her companion, colleague and friend all at once continued to writhe in her hold.

After a few more minutes his flailing diminished into spasmodic jerks and he lie relatively still once more.

_'Damn it, what's keeping the ambulance?'_ Cameron thought to herself as she bent over Chase's side to check for his pulse again. It was even more spastic than last time, and his breathing had become little more than a choked rasp since his seizure.

"Please hurry," she whispered quietly, her voice weak and tired. She closed her eyes, willing away the sights she had taken in since her arrival. How she wished it were all just some lucid nightmare. What she wouldn't give to not be here, standing helplessly by as her coworker, friend and colleague hung suspended from such a fine-spun thread. "Please get here…"

Her fingers had found their way to Chase's throat, where they lingered, forever gauging his pulse and bidding it not to falter into nothingness. He began to cough again; no seizing or thrashing—just a dry, winded cough that seemed to rip at his lungs as he gasped and sputtered for breath.

She lifted his head into her lap, holding back a sob and began to stroke her fingers deftly through the un-matted tresses of his hair. After a moment the coughs died down, as with the new, elevated position of his head, his airway was less clogged.

_'It's going to be all right… don't worry.'_ She told herself mentally; also telling herself that she had to keep it together, even though knowing there was nothing she could do presently was killing her.

From outside the shrill blaring of sirens burst through the air and she let out a thankful breath that they had arrived. "Help's here Chase… you're going to be all right." Her voice faltered again, throat constricting painfully.

She just hoped they had been in time.

* * *

**_Author's Ramblings: _**Chapter 2 is up. What did you think? Please tell me if any of the characters (Cameron in this case) seem OOC so I can fix it. Also, I don't know if this is going to be Chase/Cameron or not. I just like touching on their friendship--It might become more.Well, please leave your honest opnions at the door, ne? Thanks 

Blackrose


	3. III: The Balls are in Your Court Now

Chapter III: The Balls are in Your Court Now, Doctor...

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_'What the hell is going on?'_ Cuddy asked herself annoyed as she continued her pacing up and down the presently empty hallway of the ambulance dock, swiping distractedly at a loose tendril of hair that had fallen into her eyes. Her footsteps echoed loudly in the empty corridor as she turned and began to walk back in the opposite direction.

She had answered Cameron's plea bargain easily enough, calling for an ambulance to be sent down to Princeton's in-residence housing; but she still wondered why. Being the Dean of Medicine was already heard enough when dealing with one Gregory House; but she hated being out of the loop. And the hospital was her baby—being out of the loop was not an option.

Why had Cameron left while still on duty to go see Chase? Why did she need an ambulance?

She stopped after another moment of irritated pacing and brought her hands to her temples, massaging her fingers over them convulsively. "Don't worry. Cameron said she was going to explain," she soothed herself.

Suddenly, the doors to the docking bay flew open and the sound of abating ambulance sirens burst through the corridor. Starting in mild surprise, she stepped aside just soon enough to avoid being trampled by a swarm of EMTs and horribly clattering gurney wheels against the whitewashed floor. Their loud footsteps echoed painfully in the small enclosure they occupied as they sped the gurney past her. Their voices rose high above the confusion, shouting orders to various members of the team.

"Push 0.1 cc epi!"

"Stabilize his breathing—02 stats are through the floor!"

"Have to intubate; give me a tube!"

"Let's get him to the ICU!"

She stared after the retreating technicians confused, watching them with unblinking eyes until they disappeared, turning right at the end of the corridor and vanishing into the hospital's mainframe. "What on earth was—?"

"Chase."

Cuddy turned in surprise, not having expected an answer. Loose strands of hair fell into her face again as she faced the young immunologist who had given her a reply, and she swiped at them in annoyed distraction.

"Cameron, what in God's name?" She asked, casting a bewildered look over her shoulder down the corridor the EMTs had just bustled through.

"Well," Cameron began slowly, her voice leaking hesitance. "I was concerned, so, you know—"

"Wait, let's walk." Cuddy cut across her, shaking her head in disbelief at the entire situation.

"Why?" Cameron asked confused, raising an inquiring eyebrow at her supervisor.

"House should hear this."

That said, Cuddy sighed tiredly and began her trek down the corridor. The heals of her shoes clattered loudly against the linoleum, and a few steps behind, Cameron hurried to catch up with her.

"So, explain to me what's going on now." Cuddy voiced as she and Cameron ascended the stairs back to the main floor of the hospital.

"Well, Chase hasn't been in to work lately so I was worried, you know?" Her voiced tapered from a definitive statement into a question and she fell silent as though waiting for Cuddy to say something.

She simply nodded.

"And, well, so I went to check on him—"

"While you were on active duty?" Cuddy asked, her voice coming out somewhat snappishly.

"What? No. Well—Yes. But it was during lunch. I-I didn't think—" Cameron flustered.

"Of course you didn't think," Cuddy finished offhandedly, waving a dismissing hand in front of her. "No one ever thinks when they're worried. You acted on impulse—"

"You're saying I was wrong to—?"

"—And probably saved his life."

Cameron stopped as she heard the last words fall from Cuddy's lips. She fell silent, her voice suddenly failing her. She stood, mildly awestruck, gazing up at Cuddy, who was still climbing the steps. After a moment, Cuddy seemed to have realized that Cameron had stopped as she, too, stopped and turned around.

"Well, are you coming or not?" she snapped, her 'Dean of Medicine' demeanor quickly back in place.

Cameron nodded and quickly climbed the stairs to be standing level with Cuddy again. Then, in silence the two of them continued their ascent of the last few flights up stairs and pushed through the wooden, steel-integrated doors that lead into the reception area of the hospital.

---

"Doctor House, calling Doctor Gregory House. Please call Doctor Lisa Cuddy on extension 3731." The P.A. announcement rang through the reception area eliciting various responses from the current inhabitants. Waiting outpatients looked towards the speakers with mild interest, probably wondering who Gregory House was, and who Lisa Cuddy was. Nurses behind the desk chuckled lowly to themselves, sighed or rolled their eyes. To them this was a near-everyday occurrence.

Cuddy was fuming.

"Where the _hell_ is he!" She hissed angrily. "He was supposed to be in the clinic _all_ afternoon."

"When the cat's away, the mouse will play," Cameron acknowledged, following beside Cuddy and clutching Chase's file in her arms.

Cuddy cast her an inquiring look.

"Did you really expect him to stay on clinic duty when you're _not_ supervising him?" Cameron asked mildly bemused.

Cuddy sighed in resignation, shaking her head in annoyance. "I can't even expect him to stay on clinic duty when I _am_ supervising him."

Seeing the look on Cuddy's face as she said this, Cameron had to work to keep from letting out even the slightest giggle. The resulting effort came out sounding like an awkward cough, which gained her a suspicious glance from Cuddy. "Nothing." She muttered quickly, keeping her head down to avoid making eye contact, lest she let another ill-begotten laugh escape her.

"Come on," Cuddy grumbled turning down a small hallway leading off of the room they currently occupied. Her steps were load and angry and her walk was rigid.

"Where are we going?" Cameron asked, hurrying along beside her, rearranging the files she carried in her arms with limited success.

"To House's office."

"Weren't we already—?"

"He retraces his footsteps. Thinks I won't look twice in the same spot."

Noting the growing strain Cuddy was exerting to keep her voice calm and level, she decided not to push the subject as they rounded off a second corner and found themselves staring at the glass door to his office that read "_Gregory House, M.D. Department of Diagnostic Medicine"_.

The white hanging blinds cloaking the walls were drawn; yet filtering through gaps in them was a glow of yellow light. Cuddy stepped forward and wrenched the door open striding purposefully into his office. Cameron entered behind her, making a quick grab for the fast-closing door and slowing it so it wouldn't slam against the doorframe. In the process of this, papers from some of the files she had been carrying slipped out of the file folder and drifted lazily to the floor. She knelt hurriedly to pick up the papers and put them back in their file.

As this sight unfolded, an unfazed Gregory House cast the two women in the doorway of his office a bemused look and turned back to watching the mini television propped up on the corner of his desk; it was currently rattling off some over-dramatic dialogue between some frantic woman and a much-too-smooth doctor—General Hospital, no doubt. He was reclining in his office chair, both legs propped up on the desk, cane spun idly between his palm and the floor.

"Just what have you been doing? Cuddy demanded.

"Shhh! It's almost commercial!" House replied, waving his free, not cane occupied, hand towards Cuddy to quiet her.

"I mean it," Cuddy fumed angrily, taking resolute steps forward to place herself between House and the TV. Then she switched it off and turned back to House; who was either giving her a very affronted look, or a very shocked one.

"So did I," House whined in the high, nasal voice of a five-year-old. "It was almost commercial."

"You think I care?" Cuddy shot back annoyed.

"Wait…" House's expression melted instantly into understanding. "I know what this is about."

Cameron looked up from the pile of papers she was gathering on his floor giving him a wondering look.

Cuddy scoffed. "Do you?"

House nodded. "Don't tell me— the hooker you got me went to your office _again_?" He shook his head in tired exasperation. "How many times do I have to tell them—"

"I'm serious, House." Cuddy interrupted him, her hands coming up to rest once more on her temples.

"Of course you are," he agreed, his voice full of sickly-sweet mock-sympathy. "It's a _very_ serious problem." As he said this, his voice took on a low, sexy growl. "I don't know why they keep going to _your_ office… Not unless—"

"House—" her voice had taken on a threatening tone.

He shook his head. "No, no. Don't worry. It's no big deal. We all have our kinks and quirks—"

"—I let you get away with more crap than anyone in this hospital!" She sighed sharply. "Killing your employees is where I draw the line."

"Really?" He asked, as though shocked by this news. "I thought that's why I have malpractice insurance."

"Like you actually pay it," Cuddy retorted sharply. "Besides," she shook her head. "That only applies if you actually kill a patient _because_ of malpractice."

"Ergo, the name." House concluded. "Makes sense."

"The crap you're pulling isn't a matter of malpractice—"

"Remind me again; what am I pulling?" House asked, slowly swinging his legs off of the desk and propping himself upright in the chair to face Cuddy.

"You're complete insensitivity towards people makes this hospital liable for everything _they_ do _because_ of _how you_ treat_ them._ If we had insurance guarding against that, I wouldn't care—I'd agree with you; most patients do deserve to be treated like morons—but we don't, so you're responsible."

"Who exactly are we talking about—assuming that you're not just bringing everyone I've ever treated into this equation?" House questioned.

"Chase—your employee." Cuddy elaborated needlessly as she turned and took the regrouped file from Cameron and thrust it at House.

"Okay…" House looked at her and took a winded breath. "You just said I'm responsible for what people do that I've treated—By treated that means a patient."

Cuddy nodded. "Uh-huh. Yep, nice of you to catch on, Dr. House. Robert Chase—Dr. Robert Chase—This hospital's newest patient."

House stared.

Cameron nodded, and for the first time since entering his office, she stepped out of Cuddy's shadow and cleared her throat. "I found him at his apartment, he was unresponsive—drunken into a stupor. They've got him intubated and suited up in the ICU. His current condition is pending."

"So, the little wombat decided he wanted to permanently hibernate—how's that my fault?" House asked.

Cuddy goggled at him, as though never quite seeing anything like him before. "How is this _not_ your fault?" she countered. "You ridicule him about the death of a patient from months ago; you ridicule him about his father dieing. You ridicule him about _everything_! God knows you only give that much attention to people you really hate and hookers!"

A look of calm surprise came over his features. "You're right," he sighed, standing up carefully with the aid of his cane. "I don't hate Chase—The secret's out: He's my bitch."

At this, Cameron let out another giggle, covering it as a cough as she brought her hand up to her mouth to stifle the sound. Cuddy turned to shoot her a reproving look and then rounded again on House.

"You're bitch or not, I don't know; I don't want to know—now he's your patient too." Cuddy snapped, turning on her heel and making a line for the door.

"I never took him on as my patient," House argued, taking a step towards her, leaning heavily on his cane as the effects of his last Vicodin had begun to wear off.

Cuddy turned abruptly at this. "You took him on as your patient they day you took him on as your employee."

Before House could retort, she had crossed the threshold, and stormed out the door. As it swung back on its hinges, the recurring announcement of the P.A. system could be heard in his room: "…Cuddy on extension 3731" reverberating around the office lazily until the door closed.

"And what about you? What do you want?" He snapped impatiently at Cameron, who just stood, mildly surprised at having been addressed, looking at him.

"N-nothing." She shook her head hurriedly. "But, unless you want Cuddy on your back again, I'd get to the clinic," she advised. Then, she too, turned and quietly exited.

House grumbled under his breath as Cameron's figure disappeared around the corner and out of his view. Then, he turned his gaze to the name written on the file Cuddy had forced on him as he reached distractedly into his pocket, snapped the lid from the small orange prescription bottle it harbored and popped out two little white pills. The file she had given him was, indeed, that of one Robert Chase. He sighed tiredly and tossed the file onto his desk, watching as some idle papers within the folder half-slid out of their binding. He dry swallowed the Vicodin.

Something told him this was going to be a long day.

* * *

**_Author's Ramblings: _**Here's chapter 3, all my nice readers and reviewers. Please tell me what you think. I hope I got them all in-character (I'm still new to writing House fanfiction, you see--though I'm a patron of the TV show). Did I do them justice? Did I ruin the characters? Honest opinions appreciated. And, also, I've noticed this on the favorites or alerts list of some people who aren't reviewing. If you're reading this, please take the time to let me know what you like or don't. It means a lot to me as an author. Thanks.

Blackrose


	4. IV: Something to Think About

Chapter IV: Something to Think About

---

"How's he doing?" Cameron asked as she finished scrubbing up, pulling uncomfortable, medical latex gloves up around her wrists as she stepped into Princeton Plains-boro's Intensive Care Unit to accompany her colleague, Neurologist Eric Foreman.

"No significant change." He informed her, taking the liberty to glance up from Chase's file to give her a sympathetic look.

"Oh," Cameron sighed. Then, in an attempt to lighten the mood, she added, "well, at least he's not doing worse, right?" She tried to let out a little laugh; a carefree gesture to signify that she wasn't worried. But, the gesture barely tumbled from her lips before turning into a devastated sigh; not quite what she was going for.

"Hey," Foreman said bracingly, stepping up beside her and putting a comforting hand on her shoulder. "He'll be fine—Look, he's stable."

Cameron nodded slowly, a small, weak smile curling at the corners of her lips. "You're right," she conceded.

Foreman nodded reassuringly at her, gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze and turned back to the monitors.

Taking her queue from Foreman, Cameron was quick to follow his example. She turned to the end of Chase's hospital bed, briefly studying the chart hung on the end rail for attending physicians. After a brief once-over, she straightened up and turned to Foreman, motioning with a light tap to his forearm for allowance for her to see the remainder of Chase's file. Foreman consented and riffled through the papers, bringing the one she was seeking to the top.

She thanked him somewhat absently as her eyes skimmed over the file, taking in the figures and stats it spewed. Mouthing silently to herself as she read, her faint voice carried through the room, offering painful contrast to the shrill _beep… beep…_ that echoed across the enclosure, exacerbated by a horrid chorus of the self-same sounds expelled from other EKGs around the room.

After a minute, she pulled back from the file, her eyes flitting—not in complete panic, though not all that subtly either—towards the aforementioned machines. Foreman watched, in the midst of his observations, with a mildly curious expression.

Cameron seemed to take some comfort in the continuous, steady spiking and falling of the pale green line read-off from the EKG.

"What's up?" Foreman asked after a moment; apparently curiosity had gotten the better of him.

"He's hypoglycemic," she replied curtly, sweeping past him and reaching for a hypodermic syringe off of the cart near his bedside. "Low blood sugar can cause seizures."

Foreman nodded. "It's probably what caused the first one—at his apartment, right?"

"Uh-huh," Cameron replied off-handedly, as she proceeded to fill the needle with a pale liquid substance and then commence to insert the tip into the IV port secured in the Radial artery of his left arm.

"Push 100 mg Thiamine and follow it with 50 mL Dextrose D50W and he'll be fine."

"Just did," Cameron mumbled withdrawing the empty syringe and discarding it. Then she reached for another syringe—the Dextrose solution—and uncapped it. As she proceeded to inject the new needle into the IV port she sighed. "I wonder why the EMTs didn't take care of it in the beginning, though. With glucose levels _that_ low, you'd think they'd notice."

"They were probably more concerned with keeping him alive." Foreman remarked evenly.

"Their mistake could've _killed_ him."

"But it didn't."

Cameron seethed. "Well, it could have. At least it's taken care of now." She smiled in a self-satisfied sort of way.

Suddenly, the door of the ICU flew open, the glass shaking from between the metal frame it was nestled in. As the door slammed, fragile instruments hung carefully along the wall, for easy and fast accessibility, shuddered violently, moving in resistance. They clanged painfully, the metallic sounds bouncing shrilly around the room for a few moments before stilling, and falling into place again. As the commotion faded into the distance, the uneven gait of two feet and a cane thrummed through the air, the noise a simple precursor to the person who pulled himself rather agitatedly into the room with them.

"House." Foreman nodded curtly.

"How novel; he wanted to grow up to be just like mommy." House groused in annoyance as he pulled himself into the room, stopping just short of Chase's bed, and regarding him with mild interest.

"Yeah," Cameron went on in disgust, throwing House a reproving look. "That's really someone to aspire to be like."

"Doesn't matter," Foreman stepped easily between them. "At this rate, he'll be dead like her too."

"What?" Cameron asked abruptly. "He's stable—Nowhere near dead. What're you getting at?"

Foreman shrugged. "Look at him."

Cameron gave him a confused look, raising an inquiring eyebrow at him. Then, after a moment, she did as he suggested and looked towards their colleague.

She didn't know what Foreman was getting at. _"Look at him." _Well, she was, and he looked the same as he had earlier. There was no significant change in his appearance. What was she supposed to be seeing? Then, she turned towards his monitors. Perhaps it was an internal problem. But, looking at the EKG, the oximetry meter, every thing seemed to be normal. Or, at least in a relatively normal range, she thought.

"What am I supposed to be seeing?" She asked after a moment, glancing back at Foreman.

"My God. It's no wonder you're not the Intensivist." House snapped, clearly annoyed.

Foreman turned to him with a quirked eyebrow and Cameron looked at him highly affronted, her eyes bright.

House fumbled in the pocket of his jeans for a moment, procuring a small orange prescription bottle. After a prolonged struggle against the cap, he managed to remove it and dump two small, white pills into the palm of his hand. He dry swallowed them thoughtlessly and continued on.

"Well, go on. Tell me Cameron. What are you supposed to be seeing?" He asked shortly.

She exchanged a glance with Foreman before replying.

"He-he's stable. Heart rhythm is steady; oxygenating is within—"

"—Is below range." Foreman cut across her. "His O2 levels are at 93. Normal levels are between 95 and 100."

"It's not too far out of range. After having come in drunk into a stupor, it's normal that his stats are lower than normal. Alcohol is a depressor, it has that effect on the lungs."

"His BAC was 2.6 when he came in this _afternoon_. By now it should be down; and his O2 stats should be up." Foreman argued.

"And they pay you a doctor's wages?" House remarked suddenly, his voice dripping in sarcasm.

"Well… considering we're doctors…" Foreman countered slowly, rolling his eyes.

"Apparently, not very good ones. You're missing the big picture."

"Big picture? Decreased O2 stats could mean a number of things. There's no big picture." Cameron sighed in exasperation.

"You're just blind. What did the tests reveal about our little wombat? You _did_ do follow up tests, didn't you?"

"They didn't reveal _anything_ unusual in his case. High BAC, low glucose, reduced platelet count… Nothing unusual about a case of over intoxication." Foreman concluded as he finished shuffling through Chase's case file to answer House's question.

"This was before you got him on IV Heparin, a Librium taper and wiped his system with activated charcoal, right?"

Cameron nodded. "And now, with glucose up again, and everything accounted for, everything that could have gone back to normal, is."

"Apparently, something's not normal."

"Like what?" Cameron sighed in annoyance.

"The little wombat's still asleep, what could that mean?" House posed thoughtfully.

"Alcohol in the blood could have an adverse affect on the Librium in his system. Could induce hypersomnia." Foreman suggested.

"The alcohol in his system at the time of arrival could do that on its own too," Cameron added.

"What're his most recent BAC levels?" House asked impatiently.

Again, Foreman returned to Chase's file, flipping unceremoniously through the pages for the latest lab results. After a moment, he looked up. "BAC from an hour ago was at 19. There' shouldn't be too much of a change from then to now."

"Even with the Librium in his system, after the lavage and activated charcoal, he shouldn't be this out." House shook his head, rapping his cane impatiently against the floor so that a dull echo traveled the length of the room. "What did the tox screen reveal?"

At this, Foreman and Cameron exchanged an uneasy glance.

"We didn't do one." Cameron informed House slowly.

House stared at her.

"Come on, House—" Foreman shrugged noncommittally, "—It's not like we need one. It's kind of obvious that it's the alcohol in his system doing this."

"Oh, _obviously_." House groused loudly. "It couldn't possibly be that his doctors are incompetent."

"Yeah… there's always that…" Foreman muttered under his breath.

House sighed. "It doesn't matter. Go home," he dismissed them, motioning absently towards the doors of the ICU.

"But, shouldn't we—?" Cameron cut in, her voice anxious.

"He's stable—He'll be fine. Go home."

"He's right," Foreman conceded, making a movement towards the door. "There's nothing more we can do tonight."

Cameron nodded slowly, letting out a long, winded sigh. "Yeah, you're right."

Then she followed Foreman outside, closing the doors behind her slowly. House stared after them, turning back to Chase only after their silhouettes had disappeared from his sight.

"So," he asked curiously, regarding Chase as he spun his cane idly around in his hand. "What _are_ you hiding then, Chase?" He cast an inquiring look towards the monitors surrounding him. After a moment he shrugged in would-be resignation. "Well, it doesn't matter. Much as I'd love to see you self-destruct, Cuddy won't hear of it. So, looks like you're gonna live."

He turned slowly, making his way across the room with his cane. Standing at the door, he turned, looking back over his shoulder. "Next time you wanna off yourself at least do it right," he called, perhaps somewhat louder than necessary. "I don't need Cuddy on my back because of you, on top of everything else. And I don't appreciate the extra work of keeping your sorry wombat ass alive." He continued to grouse, his noticeably bad mood worsening.

With that, he grimaced slightly, as pain lanced through his let, and left.

---

With some difficulty he had managed to ascend the stairs of the apartment complex and drag himself to his door. By time he stood before it, his normally foul mood had worsened exponentially; and not without precedent. Aside from an abysmal day at work—clinic duty that Cuddy had drug him to, Chase as his new case study—by time he had left that evening it had started to rain. And nothing fueled a foul mood quite like a hell-storm of freezing drizzle pouring down on you the second you hit the street.

He pushed open the door—unlocked since Wilson was already inside, he assumed—trademark scowl and glare in place and shrugged his overcoat off on the coat rack.

"Wilson!" He hollered, his harsh baritone voice menacing in the darkness until he found a light switch and flipped it on.

"Nice seeing you too!" came the shouted response from somewhere within the apartment.

At his friend's reply, House felt the beginnings of a smile tugging stubbornly at the corner of his lips; he settled for an amused smirk.

Judging by the sounds eclipsing the oncologist's own voice, House guessed he was in the living room watching some late-evening TV. That in mind, he walked down the hall and turned into the living room to join him.

As House entered, Wilson noticed that House's limp was more pronounced than usual as he hobbled across the room, leaning heavily against his cane, and collapsed thankfully onto the couch next to him.

"Bad day?" Wilson asked sympathetically as House propped his bad leg up on the coffee table and massaged it compulsively, eyes closed and teeth gritted.

"Get me a beer." House replied dryly after a moment, maneuvering his good leg onto the table as well and leaning back tiredly into the cousins of the couch.

"It's your house." Wilson protested.

"Right. And as long as you're staying in _my_ house, you're my bitch. Get me a beer."

Wilson smirked. "I thought Chase was your bitch."

House turned to stare at him for a moment before shrugging and letting out an easy laugh. "I see Cuddy's been to see you."

Wilson put on a face of mock-disarray and pouted. "So you're cheating on me with a pretty boy?" He stood up and crossed his arms in front of him in an affronted manner, heading across the room. "I didn't think you were like that, House."

House scoffed, watching as his friend made a show of disappearing into the kitchen. When his back had disappeared, House called after him. "Me cheat? Never! I'm just a pimp!"

Chortling good-naturedly, Wilson returned from the kitchen with two beers in hand. He handed one to House as he retook his seat on the couch, and popped the other can open for himself. After a moment, and between a long drink, Wilson commented. "You, a pimp? Who would've thought?"

"What can I say?"

At this, Wilson shrugged and reached for the remote. A few minutes later, and after having gone through a large portion of stations, they finally settled on a channel. Some random obscure college football game; it's not like there was anything better on, they agreed.

"What's up with you?" Wilson asked a couple minutes into the game. He had finished off his own beer and was about to grab another, on the pretext of asking if House needed a refill, when he noticed that House hadn't even opened his first one yet.

House stared blankly at the unopened can before him for a moment before shrugging.

A look of comprehension came over Wilson's face, and he sat down again. "Oh, boy. This is about your new case, isn't it?"

House glanced at him. Apparently, Cuddy _had_ been in to see him. There was no other way Wilson could have known about Chase's condition. He shrugged.

"Do you think I'm bad enough to drive someone to kill themselves?" House asked after a moment, temporarily startling Wilson with the abruptness and bluntness with which he had asked.

"That depends," Wilson began evenly. "Are we talking about Chase?"

"No, of course not!" House gasped. "We're talking about Cuddy! I was wondering how much she could take before driving herself off an overpass! What on earth made you think about Chase?"

Wilson rolled his eyes. "In that case, and I'm just going out on a limb here—yeah. You have a habit of being cruel to people—that's probably the only reason why Cuddy even lets you get away with having such crappy bedside manner."

House scoffed.

"Don't let it bother you. People—yes, even stupid ones—have free will. You can't be blamed for something they did to themselves."

"Who said I was bothered by it?" House snapped in annoyance, a scowl replacing the easy look he had adopted.

Wilson sighed, and knowing better than to argue when House was feeling his most misanthropic, he stood up. "Anyway, it's late, I want to get some sleep, and you should too."

House looked up at him a moment, almost in disbelief. "Are you telling _me_ to get off my own couch so _you_ can go to sleep?"

"I think I am, yeah."

House shrugged and moved his feet from the table, pulling himself upright. He bent down to pick up the unopened beer can and then turned and headed to the kitchen. Wilson watched him disappear, and after a few moments, the light in the kitchen went out and the steady thudding of House's feet and cane were dwindling into the distance.

"G'night, Jimmy!" Came a gruff voice, followed by a door closing.

Wilson shook his head and walked to the wall, switching off the lights as well. "Night House." He muttered.

* * *

**_Author's Ramblings: _**Well, there you have it, chapter 4. I think I did alright with it. Though, towards the end maybe House was a bit OOC, and I'm not at all sure I did Wilson justice. What do you think? And thoughts on the others too. I don't know if I'm doing them justice. As always, please leave your name at the door with a nice review, ne? I'd really appreciate your input if you read this, so don't hold back. Flames just as happily accepted as critiques. Thanks.

Blackrose


	5. V: Waking Hour Inclinations

Chapter V: Waking Hour Inclinations

---

_Swimming back and forth, in and out of view, a contorted peek of the clinic door could be seen. The little red, stencil-on letters glared harshly: CLINIC. The glass door upon which the word resided was a mess of twisted and blistering glass, being melted down in a raving sea of red-orange flames._

_Amid the frantic screaming of various hospital personnel, and a rush of soot-slicked, once-white lab coats, a lone figure stood. Like a sorely misplaced beacon of hope, stood House. Cane at the ready, a manic grin spreading across his disheveled face, the glee burned in his eyes, by far brighter than even the flames. To finish the array, desperate clinic patients rushed around, and House stood ready—ready to make up for lost time. Beating them around the ankles, tripping them, stabbing, poking, prodding… A bark-like laugh escaped his lips, shrilling on the air chaotically amid the flames._

_"Mwahahahaha—!"_

Beep… Beep… Beep… Beep.

A tired hand reached out in the darkness, fumbling blindly for the alarm clock, sitting bereft, like a lone sentinel, on his nightstand. With a few swats in the general direction of the contraption, he managed to quiet it's skull-piercing beeping.

"Damn… knew it was to good to be true." The voice, heavy with sleep, rung through the room harshly, as a gruff yawn followed suit, accompanied by the thick rustling of sheets being cast aside.

After a few minutes of struggling against the begrudging bed sheets, House managed to disentangle himself from their grasp and hoist himself into a half-awake sitting position, legs cast over the edge of the bed, and his upper body curled in on itself as his head rested itself contently in his hands still demanding for the peace of sleep.

Looking up half-lidded, he consulted the alarm. The stark, neon green numbers blared five thirty a.m. and the harsh light made him clamp his eyes shut against their radiating glow. Sitting undisturbed for a few minutes more, he pried his sleep-deprived eyes open once more. It was in such a state that he drug himself around the room and dressed, only to collapse onto the bed thankfully after accomplishing the feat.

Only when a particularly nasty shred of pain lanced its way through his leg, eliciting a sharp intake of breath and a pained sigh, did his eyes cease to resist his conscious attempts to keep them open. A muffled groan slipped past his lips as his fingers flexed methodically over his ailing thigh, and he kept at it for a few minutes until the pain had tapered into a dull sort of ache.

"No use trying to get back to sleep now," he grumbled irritably, rising unsteadily to his feet, much to the protest of painfully creaking bedsprings. He winced, as though the sound had somehow injured him, but limped tiredly around the bed, being ever careful of his leg; it seemed to be acting up even more than usual since Chase's incident, he thought.

"Remind me to thank the little wombat personally," he voiced through gritted teeth as another wave of pain pulsed up his thigh, though the mad glint in his shockingly blue eyes was unmistakable.

Gripping his leg bracingly with one hand, and using the other to help guide himself around safely in the darkness of his bedroom, he drug himself a few steps until he managed to locate his cane.

Taking it up as an aid, other than a roaming hand, he made his way to the door with little difficulty. Leaning heavily on the cane, he pushed open the door and edged around its wide-swung arc slowly, poking his head into the deserted hallway.

Slowly, he hobbled across the hall, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes all the way into the bathroom, where he stood looking into the mirror above the medicine cabinet. A heavily on-set five o' clock shadow had lined his jaw, and bags had begun to lay themselves beneath his eyes. He let out a tired sigh and turned on the faucet. A cool gush of water bubbled forth and he ran his hands underneath the icy jet for a moment, before splashing himself in the face in a feeble attempt to wake himself.

Wiping dry his face, idle drops of water dripping down his chin, he shook his head and reached for the bottle of Vicodin sitting, conveniently placed, beside the washbasin. After dry swallowing a pill, and tossing the damp face towel aside in a careless fashion, he proceeded out of the bathroom and once more down the hallway, stopping just short of the living room.

From where he stood, at the end of the hall, looking into the living room, he could make out the rough silhouette of a still-sleeping Wilson tangled in a mess of blankets on his couch.

"With a morning ritual like _his_, he could probably sleep through anything…" He rubbed at his brow contemplatively for a moment. "But, I don't need him waking up, either. God knows he'd never let me live it down if he saw me going to work _early_." He sighed resignedly, and stepped forward slowly.

Although the term "step lightly" applied here, "lightly" could rarely be used to describe House's unique three-stride walk, as the added cane made "stepping lightly" a virtual impossibility. His first foot could be set forward quietly, but adding a cane to support the second made for a thump regardless of how he went about moving himself. Luckily, though, Wilson hadn't woken from his fitful slumbering, and he had crossed the room without confrontation.

Letting out a low, throaty grumble—something passable for a laugh—as he reached the apartment door, he grabbed for the keys hung on the rack and shrugged on his jacket. Then he stepped from the threshold and left, closing the door behind him carefully.

---

"So…" House tapped his cane impatiently, listening as its hollow thud echoed across the room. "Why would you _still_ be out, Chase?" There was a knowing tone in his voice, and the question oozed sarcasm as a wound would ooze blood.

He paced around the lab as restlessly as a sleep-deprived person could, as he waited for the results of the toxicology screening to finalize. A catalyst of sounds: whirring machines, beeping, buzzing, and the constant uneven beat of his cane against the floor shrouded the room in a jumble of noise.

"But what, would you be hiding? Let alone, something that didn't make your colleagues think to do a tox screen in the first place…?" There was something almost like a question in his voice as he murmured it in his pacing. "Are you actually smarter than I give you credit for?" He paused for a moment, as though to ponder the inquiry himself. "Nah," he shook his head. "Foreman and Cameron just screwed up."

The shrill beeping—reminiscent of the alarm that had woke him—of a machine at the far side of the lab refocused his attention, and he made a beeline for it. As fast as one could expect when using a cane, he power limped towards it and pressed a small gray, rectangular button on its side. After a quick moment of waiting, a paper spewed from the side of the machine and he took it up immediately.

As it finished running off, he scanned down the list, checking for all of the common toxins. There weren't any signs of Amphetamines or other illegal drugs. In fact, the prescription drugs he had tested for had all come back negative as well. He furrowed his brow, apparently deep in concentration, when, suddenly, he let out a hollow chuckle.

"Ha. I knew it!" He announced gleefully, patting the paper in his hand purposefully.

---

"Tsk, tsk, young wombat. I had such high expectations of you."

House had returned to the ICU in short order having discovered the cause of Chase's prolonged hypersomnia despite the treatment he had been subjected to during his stay. And, finding out the cause, he had been slightly disappointed. It was simplistically childish, even for Chase, he thought. It had been so predictably by the book that he had to stop to wonder for a second just how it was that he had come to hire the young Intensivist. As an underling in the diagnostic field, and working under House, the cases they toyed with were nothing short of rare one-in-a-billion cases. And here—here it was just _so_ simple that it seemed impossible for one of _his_ own underlings to come by it.

"Diphenhydramine." He shook his head in disappointment as he cast an aggrieved look towards the still slightly-less-than-comatose Chase. "So simple." House whined in annoyance; he limped steadily around his bed and towards to IV line running along the bedside. "So _juvenile_… I should fire you just for that."

With his unoccupied hand poised, and a syringe in place, he uncapped it easily, and after fumbling with the IV port for a moment, he managed to connect the syringe to the drip line.

"Let's see… one milliliter saline for each kilogram to neutralize the crystals… and you weigh…?" He stopped briefly, running over the math in his head and extending and retracting his fingers in a counting motion. He changed the position of the needle cap held between his lips and went on. "Well… let's round it nicely to eighty, shall we? _Shouldn't_ kill you."

Without another word, he proceeded to inject the saline mixture into the drip line. Once the syringe had been effectively emptied into the line, he removed it and tossed it lightly into the trash bin in the corner. Then, he turned for a pensive moment of thought, to glance at Chase.

Even with all of the lines and wires he had been attached to, there was something distinctly human about him. Not to say that the other patients in the Intensive Care Unit didn't appear human; they were of course. It's just that… he looked, more peaceful with all of the machines attached to him than most of the others did. But, that sort of peace wasn't normally a good sign in hospitals. In fact, it was rather unnerving.

House glanced away and turned to the clock on the wall. It was just slightly past seven, which meant he had been here almost an hour waiting for the lab results. It also meant that he had had to get up much earlier than he would on any other day just to take care of what his idiot attending physicians hadn't taken care of yesterday.

"Incompetent doctors in the teaching hospital… Cuddy'll be thrilled." House groused tiredly, running his fingers idly over the grip of his cane. "On the other hand… It's not my problem."

Even though he said it, the little voice in his head was screaming at him: _It's not your problem now! It will be as soon as she's ripping your hide for it!_

Despite the obvious truth to his thoughts, he shrugged it off in a very House-esque manner. "At least I'll be well-rested…"

And with that, he went on his way to his office to catch a few more hours of sleep that he had been afforded.

* * *

**_Author's Ramblings: _**Sorry it took so long to upload. But between working on this story, and school work, I've been swamped. Originally, this was going to include Chase finally waking up, and his talk with House, but I cut the chapter in two, to minimize stress. That's why this chapter's kind of short. So, if you're still sticking with me here, my faithful, nice reviewers, look forward to their confrontation in chapter 6: The Pros & Cons of Breathing. 

So, with all adeiu, please leave your name at the door with honest opinions intact, ne? Critiques, flames, rants, questions. The longer the better, you know the drill. Thanks.


	6. VI: Internal Vices: Guilt and Blame

Chapter VI: Internal Vices: Guilt & Blame

---

"House?"

An impatient rapping against the glass door of his office followed the annoyed tone. Silence followed, and the tone waited another moment before trying again. "House?" There was a sharp edge to the voice. Constrained. On edge.

Still no reply.

A painful rap on the door sounded. A sharp intake of breath, then: "I know you're in there — House!" The door slammed open, sending the shutters scattering around the glassed-walls in pained disorder.

At the sudden noise, a disheveled-looking House blinked open a weary eye from his computer chair. He was lounged back, both feet propped against the desk, his cane hung around the back of his chair precariously and about to fall off. His head snapped up at the angry tone screeching his name, and he regarded the source — one very pissed-looking Cuddy — with mild interest from behind sleep-deprived, tired eyes.

"It's too early for me to deal with all of your administrative neediness, Mistress DreamKiller," he groused in tired annoyance as he struggled to keep his eyelids apart. In his conscious state, he became painfully aware of the jarring throb in his neck, the pain radiating upwards dully giving him a headache. He should have supposed sleeping as he had in a stiff-backed computer chair would cause some sort of muscle discomfort.

"Don't be cute!" Cuddy snapped back, waving his comment aside listlessly. "You were _supposed to be _in the clinic almost _two_ hours ago."

"Only two hours ago, huh?" He yawned, pulling himself from the desk and straightening himself out with a reproaching crack from his back as he did so. He rubbed at his eyes gingerly.

"Only?!" Cuddy fumed. "House—" she stopped, proper words failing her. Taking a collective breath, she forced the last words out; they sounded clipped, painful to the ear: "—Just. Go." She motioned towards the office door with an angry wave of her hand.

"Fine, fine," he grumbled, swiveling around in his chair to face her. Deftly grabbing at his cane, hooked around the back of his chair, he made to stand in one fluid motion. Almost succeeding.

Almost.

Immediately, as his cane met the carpeted floor and he pushed himself up, he staggered; his injured leg crumpling uselessly beneath him like tissue paper. Catching himself quickly on the edge of his desk, he let out a low, painful curse. "Damn…" he hissed, blowing air out from between his lips shakily, his breaths coming in slow, uneven drags; his eyes clamped together as white-hot daggers of pain sliced through his thigh muscle, agonizing chords rippling through the muscle fibers.

Cuddy made a hasty move towards him. "Are you all right?" she asked, her voice hitching in worry, taking a quick step in his direction.

Not answering immediately, he waited a few moments for the pain in his thigh to pass. Once it had receded into a sort of dull, though stabbing throb, he opened his eyes to face her. A crooked smirk in place, his cerulean eyes shining brightly in mischief, he replied:

"What a quick change in temperament," he commented; his voice broke, shaking just enough to reveal that he was still in immense pain. "You must be riding the crimson wave, hm?"

At his callous inquiry, he glared sharply. "To answer your question, no." She sighed — she'd been doing that a lot lately, she noticed — "Now go." She thrust her arm out, pointing with a perfectly manicured nail to his office door.

"Alright, alright… Jeez," he conceded, attempting once more to right himself, this time succeeding. His limp more pronounced than usual as he put as much weight as he could bear on the ailing limb, crossing the room clumsily.

She stepped around him quietly, staying well out of range of his cane, and got the door open, making his exit easier for him. As he passed her, he allowed some of his curiosity to get the best of him and he voiced a single question:

"How's Chase?"

It was spoken quietly, in a voice thick with pain and choked by the presence of words too sincere for his tastes. The words fell like turpentine from his lips, bitter and out of place.

She scoffed, following him out the door and trailing him to the clinic to make sure he arrived there. "Like you actually care," she replied shortly. "Now get to work — there's a patient in exam room one."

Grumbling to himself in annoyance as she turned heel and retreated up the hallway, disappearing around a corner, he berated himself for asking. Cuddy was right, after all: like he actually cared. What was he thinking when he asked that? Had the uncomfortable rest in the computer chair addled his brains?

"What was I thinking, asking that?" he asked himself, almost aghast at the prospect, as he steadied himself carefully against his cane. Almost as though in reply, a dull pain shot up his leg. He shrugged to himself, wincing. "I don't care."

To disrupt his musings, a sharp protest from his thigh spoke out in the form of a vicious dagger of agony. He closed his eyes and breathed deep, rummaging deeply through his jeans' pocket for the small prescription bottle nestled safely within the folds of the fabric.

_But you do care about Chase_…

He popped the cap off a bit more forcefully than he might have needed to, dumped two little pills shakily into his palm, and quickly downed them, shaking his head roughly, and with it, removing the preposterous thought from his mind.

_Don't deny it. Why else would you have asked?_

Ridiculous. He shook his head again, more roughly this time, as though he were trying to shake water from his ears. To keep his thoughts from returning to the ridiculous notion, he hastily grabbed the patient file waiting for him off the reception desk and hobbled off to exam room one.

---

Crutching stiffly into Exam Room One, leaning heavily on his cane for support, he deadpanned and nearly turned to walk just as stiffly out again.

His newest _patient_ was a young teenage girl, probably about seventeen he guessed. However, from the short length of the hair she could have passed just as well for a male, he noted mentally. A black T-shirt with — _Oh, good God, _he thought — a goat holding a guitar in front of a star and with — _are those wings? What in the hell? — _something resembling wings behind it stenciled in white over the word "HYDE" stretched over her figure tightly, like a second skin. A pair of black and green bondage pants, loaded down with a hoard of jangling chain jewelry, hung over her booted feet a good few inches at the hems. To finish the picture, twin pairs of thin, white wires dangled down from he ears, meeting a few inches beneath her chin and tapering into a single string leading into one of her pant pockets.

"Go back to the _Hot Topic _you crawled out of — their witchdoctors can help you more than I can. You know: they have leeches, bloodletting — all that. Your kind of stuff," he snarked in annoyance, closing the clinic door behind him, automatically knowing he would regret it.

When his comment failed to get a rise out of the girl, he stepped forward heavily, purposely railing his cane against the floor. It made a loud sort of 'thump.'

After a slow moment — a pause so pregnant he began to suspect her of being deaf — the girl finally raised her thick-lashed eyes to him. He glared openly, not so much as attempting to hide his annoyance and distaste. Gradually, the girl reached into one of several pant pockets — that practically swallowed her hand — and pulled out an MP3 player. She toyed innocently with the volume control; it was a good thing, House thought, considering that he could hear the music pulsing from her earphones in arrhythmic waves when he first entered the room.

"I have constant headaches, like migraines, really," the girl said — shouted — bluntly, not bothering to remove the earpieces.

He could still hear the music.

Knowing he would come to regret it, he nodded, being painfully reminded of the tense knot of muscles, stiff and protesting, bunching at the base of his skull. _Oh, brother…_

"I-I thought that — because you know, I've researched — it might be a tumor. You know, like brain cancer, or something?"

_For being so stupid, you deserve it,_ he thought dully, taking up his hand and running it tiredly over his face. "Well, if you've researched—"

"What?!" the girl shouted; the music had gotten louder.

Annoyance swelled in his chest like a helium balloon; he rapped his cane against the floor impatiently. "I said—"

"Huh? What?"

The balloon popped.

Walking awkwardly, his unique three-stride gait more pronounced than usual, he stepped towards the girl. Extending a hand, he grabbed for the dangling cord of her earphones, gave them a harsh tug, and pulled the earpieces from her ears.

As the earphones spilled into her lap, coiling themselves into a knot of their own wires, she let out an angry screech of protest: "Hey!"

"You're an idiot — for you sake, I hope it's the tumors," he snapped back angrily, his temper bubbling closer to the surface. And, without another word, he turned and crutched out of the room, the door slamming harshly behind him.

---

"House, what has gotten _in to _you?" an exasperated Cuddy asked him a short hour later, dragging herself into her office angrily after House, slamming the door behind her and motioning stiffly — forcibly — for him to sit.

He ignored her _offer _to sit, doggedly defending himself in a whining voice. "She was annoying," he insisted, holding his hands before him in mock surrender. "It's not like it's the first time I've—"

"Shut up," she snapped angrily, rounding on him. "It's not an excuse," she sighed, quickly regaining her composure, shaking her head tiredly, loose sepia tendrils of hair swaying with her, framing her sharp, tired face.

Taken aback by her sudden outburst, he was quiet, regarding her almost in quiet awe for a moment. Then, he made to speak again:

"It's not an excuse, huh? Well it never was before now either, so why only call me on it now?" he reasoned bluntly, his voice challenging her. Egging her on.

"Because," she paused, gathering her thoughts in tired agitation. _How many times had they had this conversation now_, she wondered dully. "You've always been abrasive and rude. Always callous and bitchy."

"So, why should I—"

"House, shut _up_," she held up a hand to silence him, her voice suddenly clipped, short. Demanding. "You've always been that way — God knows I helped create the monster you've become today — but you've never been _this_ bad."

"Right," he mumbled darkly, glowering at Cuddy's drawn-in frame. "So suddenly, because the whole world is filled with cowards, the one with the spine is being punished. Real vigilante justice at its best there, chief."

"Cowards?" She let out a derisive laugh, dulled with pain and hollowed in weariness. "Cowards," she repeated, facing him full on. Her own startling blue eyes found his and locked into them long and hard. "House, cowardice is the reason one of my _employees_ is wired up on the ICU clinging by bare threads to his life."

"Just because Chase made a poor decision—" House shot back, keeping his eyes steadily on her for any slightest showing of weakness.

But even as he said the words, he knew it was not how she had meant it.

_You're the coward… You. You're the reason Chase is in the state he's in. It' your fault…_

He shook his head, shaking the heavy thought form his mind. _What a load of crap._ Like hell it was his fault. Just because Chase was weak, and had decided to pull his little stunt, did not automatically inculpate him. It had _nothing_ to do with him.

"It isn't Chase's fault, House. You know damn well it isn't," she cut in loudly, pulling him back from his reverie and making him aware of that fact that he had lost there little battle of power. He had broken her gaze; looked away altogether.

When had he done that? He couldn't remember...

"Oh, of course it isn't," he groused back, slamming his cane to the carpeted floor, standing up from the couch he had — finally, in the run of their heated exchange — possessed, to make a move towards the door.

She moved between him rigidly, blocking the door. "House," she warned.

"Fine, look." He threw his hands up in surrender, raising his voice a pitch louder than normal. "It's all my fault. I'm the reason he's in the state he's in. _It's_ _all my fault_!!" He yelled, his voice raising another bar.

His rough tone made her wince, and she hated showing such weakness in front of him, but it couldn't be helped. When she addressed him again, she was careful to keep her voice level:

"I mean it, House."

"Right, of course," he dismissed her reproach almost casually, his voice falling back into it's natural tone almost immediately. "Okay, I feel guilty. You're little guilt-trip-ploy worked, can I go on with the rest of my life now?"

At the mentioning of him feeling guilty, she gave him a quizzical look. A look that read more deeply into him than he would like to admit. But he knew, he sensed, that in that look, she had seen right through him. Seen that we _did_ feel guilty.

_I am partially to blame for this…_

Suddenly, the door to her office swung open, and Cameron looked in, startled to find both of her superiors together. "Oh," she stammered in surprise. "I'm sorry; I didn't know you were busy." She turned to glance apologetically towards Cuddy.

Cuddy acknowledged the apology and turned to her kindly. "What did you need?" she asked.

"I wanted to know where House was, actually," she admitted, casting the said man a curious expression before redirecting her attention to Cuddy. "I thought he'd like to know: Chase has woken up."

* * *

**_Author's Ramblings:_** Yeah, so I know it's been literally _forever_ since I've updated this. I know, I know. Bad me. But, I've been really busy with various on-goings in my life. Believe me, I missed writing as much as you missed reading (well, maybe you didn't miss it, but my point remains valid). And yes, I know Chase hasn't woken up yet, like I said he would. But again, because of time constraints, I cut this chapter short too. But, he will be up next chapter, I _promise._ At least you got my attempt at a clinic patient this go 'round. Right?

I know you've probably forgoten about this story, which wouldn't surprise or offend me in the slightest, seeing as I all but abandoned it forever. But, if you have enough heart to come back it it and pick up where you left off, your opinions would be greatly apprecitated. So, you know the drill, please leave your honest opinions at the door, and happy reading!

Blackrose


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